Chapter Twelve:

Bears and Airboats and Rasputin and Rubles

THE NEXT DAY we went to the great Leningrad State Circus. There's a website – in fact several – for this but I did not post it. It doesn't really cover the bear acts and Russian circus bear acts are a wonder: there is nothing like them, really, anywhere else – and what I want to emphasize is the bears we saw. But apparently (I intuit from various dippy websites and postings I see) in Russia (since I was there), the inroads of (pestiferous) Western animal lovers have now penetrated, and one of the world's great art forms is under siege...

We filed into the dome and took our seat, very near ringside. The usual admonishments about "filming" were repeated: the rule as I recall it, was don't film military anythings, and whatever you do – your films will be unloaded and developed and inspected before you leave Russia anyhow and if you have been filming the wrong things you will be asked more questions. The West could well take some cues from the East on how to simplify matters and develop simple solutions for them. Like this the "rule" about filming. (What is it you don't understand?).

There were the usual acrobats and dog-and-pony acts, and clowns and all, and it was all very good. But the heart of a Russian circus - a real Russian circus – is the bears.

Bears are the national bird of Russia, you see.. It is no accident the bear is their icon like ours is the eagle.

There was a roll on the drums, the house lights dimmed and went back up, and Ta-DA! – the bear act had begun.

You don't know bears till you've seen them in the Leningrad State Circus...

To begin with: there were no (visible) handlers...

The bears all entered Stage Left out of an Entryway across from us and when they appeared a great shout went up. (For a moment I thought of the bullring in Mexico City on a sunny day long ago, and how I cheered for the bulls: as an "auslander" there also; was I expected to cheer for the bears here – or what?). The Head Bear or maybe Bear Commisar he would be (whatever), walked upright on two feet to the middle of the ring, slowly looked around (maybe counting the house – what I know anyway?) – then put his two paws over his head like Joe Louis used to do in the 10th Round taking kudos for a K.O. I was filming away with my video cam.

In my viewfinder I saw something, however, that made me gasp: right across from us and thus in all my bear photos, were the box seats where the military all sat! Damn! Now they would be in all my pictures! There was a big, stodgy looking Admiral and others with him. They stared right back across the bears at me! Jeezul! If I filmed the bears, the Red Guards would find my pictures of their Admiral and all – and I would be sent to Siberia as maybe another "non-person-person.". But I did so want those bear pictures... I threw caution to the wind and my camera rolled on... More later.

Now the big bear was riding a bicycle all on his own around the ring. Other bears (some were favorites and known to the crowd) – entered one-by-one. The ring was filling up with bear-persons and no person-person in sight. But they all knew just where to go and what to do. There were no problems.

Some began to work out on a trampoline – comic stuff. Others threw a ball back and forth. Others climbed ladders, one by one, and walked along catwalks high overhead. Then the comic bears danced – upright! – with each other – around and around. The mostly Russian crowd loved it: this was their national thing. The heartbeat of a nation, I could tell. Like the Mexican bullfight, they knew just when to applaud and when to moan... It was really eerie.

Eventually the bear-handlers showed up, and the party broke up: one by one and entirely in strict order – the bears exited at the Entryway they had come in by – the comics of course, turning one last time – paws clasped over their heads for an extra plaudit from the crowd – which they got!

You'd have to see it to believe it, I guess. The Russki bear is their real national treasure there –nothing in the Hermitage can match it!

The next day we went by airboat (hydrofoil) down the Neva to the Czar's summer palace Peterhof in the gulf of Finland. The website says it all: more treasures, architecture, etc. After a while your mind just refuses to register much of it. The boat ride was the best part! And with my penchant for Russki Moosik - what better than a little "Russian Sailors' Dance" here for mood music (the opening bars are a bit of a drag but hang in...)

I think it was nearly dark (dusk anyhow at those latitudes) when we returned. I remember the bus was going down some street (Nevsky Prospekt ? that's one of their drags there...) and the Guide pointed out the left side to a dark, gloomy old building we were going by: "That," she said, "is where Rasputin – the Mad Monk – once lived and where he met his end..." We all gawked out the windows. I shall spare you a tedious recounting of this character, but urge you to read about him here: he was truly a monk for all seasons, he was. And the account of his supposed demise is the stuff nightmares are made of. It always makes me think of those lines from "Abdul the Bulbul Ameer" – the old American college frat boy song, about yet another tale of derring-do out Russia's ancient past:

Well, these Russian peregrinations could go on forever, and I have already devoted several chapters to same, so perhaps we should begin retracing our steps. The day of departure came, so Intourist took us back to the railroad station and we were "sealed" into a military-type train again and slowly the train pulled out of the yards, and built up speed: heading back again down the tracks to Vyborg.

In Vyborg, we were not again obliged to de-train, but rather sat waiting in our individual compartments (about six to eight passengers in each) for whatever was next. It was not long in coming: with a crash the compartment door slid back and there was a Red Guard in ankle-length cape and boots, though it was Mid-Summer. And on his head the giant, sort of squarish hat they all wore with a big Red Star right in the front of it.

"You...GIVE...PASSPORTS!"

Everyone ponied up, and Millie ponied up for me as well as herself. Ever since I had managed to "lose" my passport in Mexico (and barely escaped becoming an involuntary immigrant in reverse to that benighted nation), she had elected to be the keeper-of-documents-of-record and all was contained in her purse...

The guard cradled his "take" in his arms, turned and slammed the door shut – and disappeared.

Time passed. Slowly.

Now we had been told that when we left Russia, "they" would examine all our cameras and video-cams and check to see what images we had taken. But no one had called for same yet – and the big guard that took the passports had gone away – and so who was I to volunteer, anyhow. Also, we had been told it was a cardinal sin to try and "take any rubles" out of Russia. They really got all bonkers over that. (You see when you go in: your money is all "exchanged" for rubles (Man! How they love to get American dollars! They are like kids in a candy store at the money exchange bar...). But when you leave, every ruble must have been spent in Russia first: you are not allowed to depart with any such on your persons! (or) Off to the Gulag for you, you Yankee Dog!

I was sitting by the window. Millie was next to me.

"Why are you fidgeting around so?, she asked.

"I dunno," I said. "Just wishing we could get underway is all."

Time slowed even more....

Then the door opened again with a crash. It was the big Russki Guard.

"NO...RUBLES! WHO ..HAVE... RUBLES?"

Not me! I didn't carry any cash or anything: Millie carried it all and handled everything from her purse. (I had wanted a ruble for a souvenir – and we had discussed – and decided it was too risky). Millie had all our "unspent" rubles and she waved then under the Guard's nose.

No one else said anything or produced anything. They just sat meekly, watching.

"WHAT... NAME?"

"My name is Mildred," said Millie.

"MIL-DRUD!... COME! .... YOU SPEND!"

He sort of stood to one side, beckoning. Mildred rose uncertainly and followed. And I rose to follow Millie. The Guard raised no objection. We walked down the train aisle and got off on the platform behind the Guard!

("Jeezul!." I thought, "What now?").

He shifted his rifle on its shoulder sling and indicated we were to follow him. We entered the Waiting Room once more. I would have sworn there were new postings about American perfidy on the Bulletin Board: more mushroom cloud photos – submarines – pictures of the Globe – stuff like that. But I'm not sure. Oddly, the same comrades seemed to be still sleeping at the end of the benches. I'm pretty sure of that! (Maybe they were dead already? Who knows?)

But we clumped right on by, and the Guard indicated we were to follow him down a gloomy flight of stairs to some dismal lower level of the Vyborg Railroad Station.

And so we did.

We came out into an all-tiled sort of tunnel or arcade or something. Here and there were tiny "shops" or "kiosks" selling candies, newspapers in Cyrillic, barioska dolls (we already had – from the proper State outlet store back in Leningrad, thank you!), and so on. Most were closed. There weren't many people about. One I remember (how can I forget?): it was like a Russian "Nedick's" or whatever – fast-food lunch counter place. And there was a gal standing there as we approached from the rear and she was eating at their counter. And she was one stylish chick – even by Western standards: very trim and svelte, nice-looking, etc. and dressed to the nines, and as we walked by we saw what she was eating: she was eating a big joint of some kind, holding it in her bare hands – I mean a big cooked whole joint like out of an animal, and she was gnawing on this joint like a cavewoman and juices were running down into papers on the counter.

No one else was around.

"WHAT YOU WANT?"

We both indicated we had eaten-before-we-came, and so sort of waved off the Guard's suggestion we order up a joint for the two of us (maybe the three of us? Russian manners are as much a mystery as the rest of the place!).

I could see he had about shot-his-wad as we say in the West, and we were at the end of the arcade anyhow. So he kind of looked at us, and then he brightened and he said,

YOU... WANT... VITAMINS!"

It seemed like the only solution (in a pinch) here, so we both nodded, but it seemed to me that our Guard had also "decided", too.. (Mill in fact took vitamins by the carload: you know Sharpe and Dome, Walgreens, what I know: capitalist robber-type companies and so on).

So we turned into the Vitamin Lady's Booth. Now female medical arts practicioners all seem to be the "same" in Russia: they wear sort of a "Nurse's uniform" (do they call them maybe "nurse's whites'? What I know anyway?). And on their heads they wear a sort of square, folded paper! cap. This is the identifier-from-a-distance for "nurse-y" type help and person-persons. Remember, I told you earlier:

If you are a drugggist, a pharmacist, an ambulance worker, a nurse in a hospital, a doctor's assistant and you are female – the Party (I guess) assigns you a folded square paper hat and you must never ever stray into cucumbers, rusty water bottles, or mowing the grass over missile silos – or Bobblehead work in hotel entryways!

The Vitamin Lady sat on a high stool in back of her kiosk, and on her lap and extending way out both sides and way down in front of her, was a huge what we used to call a "butcher's tray' – a big sectioned or partioned sort of display case which hung on straps aorund her neck and contained bottled vitamins up the wahzoo.

I kinda hung back while Mill and the Guard and the Vitamin Lady in her folded paper hat (I was enthralled!) negotiated the vitamin purchases. As I recall, Viatmin A came out a big winner, after much declaiming and gesticulating, etc. simply because the stock of other vitamins was low or non-existant.

Done deal!

Mill handed over all the rest of the rubles and we retraced our steps to the train.

The train in fact, was ready to leave and they had been waiting for us. Just before we boarded (I can see this all in mind's eye now just like I was there again) – the Red Guard turned and extended his arm, and he gave Mill three big swats across the shoulders that almost sent her stumbling forward. And he said:

"MIL...DRUD! YOU ...GONNA (SWAT)....LIVE...(SWAT).... LONG LIFE!! (FINAL SWAT!)

(This was one of her favorite stories ever after. Till she died.).

With that, we got back on the train. Soon we pulled out of the Station. The compartment door slid open again. This time it was another Red Guard. He had the passports to return to us. For each one he called out our names, first.

"BUR – NURD!"

I reached forth and he handed me mine.

Then he was gone.

Idly, I just happened to open mine at random.

There stuck between the pages was a Ruble Note!

Huh?

Later, we compared notes and reconstructed.....

1) My passport had been in Millie's purse.

2) Millie kept "our" stash of rubles therein.

3) One of the notes had "worked" its way into MY passport and stuck between the pages.

4) Obviously!in their little cubicle at the end of the car, the Comrades were NOT in fact looking at, or examining all the Amerikanski passports at all – they were pulling on the vodka bottle, and swapping yarns about the "Great Patriotic War" (their name for WWII). LOL!

5) I kept the ruble note as my (desired!) souvenir thereafter, and it pains me much right now that I do not know where in hell it has got off to at this time! Dang!

6) Ditto: they never asked for or looked at whatever I had been filming around the Motherland, either.

7) Conclusion? You really want to know? Okay – here 'tis plain English: Fucking up – or Fucking off – are neither of them solely Capitalist inventions.

And so – we returned unto Helsinki. Where the Finns always say: " We told you so! You should ask us first!"

Sigh!